


What Happens in the Theater, Stays in the Theater

by Pastelient



Category: Balan Wonderworld (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29064885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastelient/pseuds/Pastelient
Summary: A collection of one-shots revolving around 'Balan Wonderworld'.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37





	1. Frangible (Balan & Lance)

**Author's Note:**

> Song of the Chapter: Piano Concerto No.2 Shostakovich

Two identical, dimmed and flickering bulbs of white cast a haze over his face. Each ray seems to halt upon flecks of dusty glitter, creating the ethereal glow his persona resonates. He’s charming, daring, devilishly enticing, and oh so flamboyantly perfect that it even surprises him sometimes. 

Nonetheless, a hand smooths over his prismatic waist coat. Clicking his tongue with a dashing smile, he winks to himself in the mirror. “Well, hello handsome.”

He whirls himself around, pirouetting in place before striking a dazzling pose, amber eyes glowing with a sort of arrogant vanity. Call him slightly conceited, and he’d agree with the simplest tip of his hat, and a clack of a heel. He knew how good his presentation was, and never dared to tamper with it. The jovially funny, witty, and weirdly beautiful persona he’d been crafting for years was too perfect to even think of changing it. 

The maestro tossed a look over his velveteen clad shoulder, glimpsing at his form, hands reaching up to tousle his mint locks. All the work and effort had gone into this to truly mold himself into what he was meant to be all this time, and damn did it all pay off.

...And yet…

Balan sighed, pouting slightly as the pose dropped, finding himself now in the comfort of his cushy vanity chair and slumped against the stained wood. Fingers gloved in satin rapped against the lacquered surface, a downtrodden expression befalling the maestro’s features. He’d rode high on the waves of serotonin for a few moments, but akin to other times this had happened, it never lasted.

Underneath the lights, the reflection in the mirror appeared to come alive, straightening his cravat with a satisfied smirk. “Aww… someone looks like they’re having a bad day!”

“Don’t patronize me,” Balan murmured, twiddling with a lock of hair. “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m trying to wallow?” 

“Wallowing in what? Self-pity?” The reflection teased, sticking his tongue out from behind a row of perfectly whitened ivories. “Not up to your usual standard today, maestro?”

Balan released a hiss he’d been holding in the back of his throat since the confrontation had begun, glaring at his own reflection which only seemed to be mocking him in return. “I haven’t the time for your rhetoric, in fact I’m getting quite sick of it, so if you’d please see yourself out the door, and never return here anymore,” Standing up from his chair, he attempted to make his way towards the door exiting the private dressing room, only to be stopped by the familiar coil, slick and smooth like snakes scales, wrapping tightly around his ankle. 

Turning his head back offered the sight of Lance, body hanging out of the mirror with the tips of the tentacles erupting from his back flaring out like vines, gripping onto anything they could. His claw like nails cracked the wood of the mirror frame, similarly to how Balan could hear the audible crack of his jaw as he clenched it, brow furrowed in disbelief and rumination. “Stop trying to run away from this, from all of this, from the mess you started and won’t clean up!”

The maestro scoffed, kicking off the tendril fervently. Had he been born without composure control, he was sure he would’ve stomped on it with his heel. “What mess? Everything is perfectly fine, and under control, dearest Lancelot.” 

“Don’t you dare call me Lancelot, Balan,” Lance warned, onyx vines sending shards of glass flying as they encapsulated the room, overtaking the once elegant room with a pulsating mess of tendril like masses that pulsated violently. “You lost that privilege when you decided…” He paused. “...When you decided you’d be better off a  _ solo act. _ ” 

Balan didn’t retort with an insult of his own, nor did he point his fingers in blame of the other. Simply, he turned himself so his back was facing Lance, and remained silent, listening to the softest of cries in the room emanating from his broken friend. Or, who he supposed had been his friend at one point. “Who are  _ you _ anymore, Balan,” He heard through broken sniffles, still keeping the silent act, refusing to even glance at the floor, eyes sternly staring straight ahead. 

And he remained that way, turning a blind eye until the forlorn cries had receded and the room had returned to the way it had been prior. 

Balan reapproached his vanity ploddingly, taking into the account the sheer amount of damage that had been done. The once glimmering lights had been shattered, the wood was stained with the sludgy remnants of Lance’s borderline breakdown, and the mirror was practically nonexistent with the shards littering the floor. Bending down, the maestro retrieved a fractional piece of the mirror, staring into his reflection against the jagged edges. 

Lance’s words had stung like salt to an opened wound, and while Balan could pretend he wasn’t affected, that would only blend in with the person he spent years crafting.

Quietly, in the room, Balan asked himself who he really was. And, for the first time in years, the mask seemed to slip. 

  
  



	2. It Started with Capri Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short fic based on a relatively cursed conversation with friends. (I do not claim to own Capri Sun)

Lance tensed, hand clenching inwards and outwards. That had been _his_ Capri-Sun. Balan had been muttering constant apologies, even going so far as to retrieve the juice sack from the floor. Yet, it didn’t matter. The straw was sullied and covered in bacteria at this point. Even the pouch itself seemed a little beat up, the stain on the floor proving some of the kiwi goodness had sputtered out upon impact. 

“Lancelot, dearest, I’m so sorry,” Balan attempted, but Lance turned a blind eye, selectively choosing to mute out the rambling maestro, who looked like a crazed lunatic holding the pouch in his hands, waving it around and spilling even more juice. “It was an honest mistake, I promise I’ll make it up to you.” 

At this point, other cast mates were staring confusedly, even the snow fairies (who normally only did what tasks they had) turned their heads to glimpse at the scene the maestro was making. The tell-tale sign of a flare up rested in the pit of Lance’s stomach, tendrils behind him becoming restless as the flow of blood rushed through them all, making some begin to curl lightly at the ends. 

“Balinsky…” Lance murmured, jaw tight and teeth glued together, the namesake coming out more as a hiss than a regard. Who was he to care, though? The once ice cold, refreshing, delicious strawberry kiwi Capri-sun he was consuming had been dropped to the floor because of him. The actor had a _right_ to be upset. 

Lance reached into his left pocket, and pulled out a silver coin, tossing it indignantly at Balan.

“Just go buy me another, and don’t bump into me next time.”

* * *

Balan would like to think he’s a generous man. Generous in many senses, including but not limited to the amount of fine spirits he’ll pour in a glass. And how many of those glasses he’ll have in a week. 

Not that he was a drunkard, no, but Balan didn’t quite understand the concept of abstinence. He sipped his sauvignon similar to how he sipped his greenbacks; brazenly, with no care or regard for the aftermath. It’s how he ended up owning seven of the same silken robe for each day of the week, all having a matching pair of slippers. 

Living comfortably was living lavishly in the maestro’s eyes, and tonight was no exception to his specific way of thinking. Garbed in Tuesday’s magenta robe, Balan lounged himself in the velvet wingback chair he’d paid a pretty penny for in an auction, legs sprawled out onto the matching footstool. One hand held a relatively interesting scottish murder mystery, the other a glass of the wine Balan consumed whenever the moment struck. It was the perfect way to spend the evening, finally taking a break from rehearsal oversightment, and being allowed to think freely with what little brain cells he had left after dealing with his castmates. 

Not that he didn’t love them, of course, but sometimes he wondered if they ever actually listened to his directing. 

Oh well. Those worries were in the past, and what Balan could focus on now was the viscous violet liquid in his glass. The dazzling, glittering mixture formed from fermented grapes and butterfly pea flowers, brewed in house at the theater for Balan’s personal pleasures. And some edible shimmer, of course, to give it’s iconic shine. The maestro gulped back a sip, shivers rolling down the back of his spine. Nothing was more sanguine, he thought, the bioluminescent markings covering his body like natural tattoos erupting into full color as the wine rushed through his body. With the buzz kicking in, the colors dimmed slightly, resulting in a warm glow that almost seemed to pulsate with an unknown energy. 

The fuzzy feeling, familiar to the maestro, finally started to kick in and he let himself relax back further into the comfort of the cushions. This was the luxury that he sought after a hard day, needing nothing more than a good novel and some craft spirits to settle him in for the night. 

For a minute, he thought he could relax, and have a moment of brevity to himself. 

The aggressive raps on his door, however, told a different story. 

A story that involved him groaning in frustration as the door slammed opened, revealing a relatively agitated Lance. Balan wanted to get angry, go blazing and call out the gothic performer for disturbing him, but instead found himself massaging his taut temples. “Lance, we’ve been over this,” He murmured, refusing to even glance up. “After 6 o’ clock, it’s _my_ time. Not yours, the casts, or literally anyone else’s, except my own.” 

“This is important, Balan,” The door shut behind Lance. “It’s about the capri sun.” 

“This again?” The maestro took a quintessential sip of his wine, purposefully making it as loud and drawn out as possible. “When will you give it a rest, dearest Lancelot?” 

"You made me drop my strawberry kiwi capri sun," Lance deadpanned, obviously choosing to ignore Balan’s attempts to brush him off and clutching the empty packet in his hands. Balan could see his knuckles whitening, life squeezing from out of the pouch. "You made me drop it, and I couldn't finish it because the straw got dirty." 

Balan's eyes narrowed, staring at Lance from the rim of his wine glass. "I bought you another one, did I not?" 

"I WASN'T FINISHED," The juice satchel was thrown to the floor, stamped on and destroyed by Lance's golden heel, splotches of remaining juice staining the carpet. "You... You bought me fruit punch! You know I **hate** fruit punch flavored things!" 

The maestro could feel his eyebrow twitch, the last remaining braincell he swore his mind had vaporizing into nothingness. Rationalizing why Lance would be so upset as to lose a simple juice pouch would probably kill his brain at this point. They literally cost almost nothing, and there were other flavors in the fridge that had been picked up with the last grocery order. It wasn’t like Lance was completely out of capri sun in the first place, but here he was, gothic glory and all, throwing a mild temper tantrum over a children’s branded juice pouch. 

But before Balan could fit in a lecture about fair reasoning, one of Lance’s tendrils shot out towards him, wrapping around the base of the wine glass he gripped in his hand. Lance’s eyes read fury, blazing as hot as a lit kilm. Each of his tendrils flailed about behind him with the sudden rush of frustration-born hatred, a signature sign that Lance was having trouble managing his emotions in his current state. 

“Lance,” Balan warned, desperately trying to remove his hand from the tendrils grasp. “Now, let’s not do something we’ll both regret later.” 

Of course, however, it was never that easy in the end. Getting Lance to calm down to a state of rationality was almost unheard of, akin to that of training a wild beast. Or, more accurately to Balan, defusing a bomb. Once he was in a bind, emotional or not, you’d never get him out of it. Hundreds have tried, including Balan, but all have failed. It was easier to let him get what he needed to get out, and pay for the damages later. 

Just like Balan had feared, Lance decided to go the route most destructive; Revenge. The tendril jerked, glass being smashed onto the floor between the two men, violet liquid quickly soaking up into the red carpet to paint a disgusting stain. Balan would’ve been more concerned about that if it weren’t for the remaining energy fizzling inside of his friend manifesting as a nightmarish scream, feet stamping the ground and tendrils wrapping around himself to _squeeze_. He recognized it as a self preservation tactic Lance had used in the past during a particularly nasty dispute, one used to stabilize the body and calm the mind. 

Geez, Balan thought as soon as Lance began to wind down from his episode. All of this over a silly juice pouch. “Is everything out of your system now, Lancie?” 

“I’m still pissed at you, but not nearly as much as I was.” 

Balan chose to ignore the wine stain that would no doubt become a hindrance, instead choosing to grab the phone from the rotary, dialing in the number. He sat on the corner of his escritoire, eyeballing Lance to make sure he wouldn’t cause more damage as the line picked up. “Hello?”

“G’Day! Balan? ‘That you? Aw, shoot, I’m in the middle of pluckin’ my fields. Whatcha need, ‘rector?” 

“Yes, Hi Josè, it’s Balan. The next time you’re at the market, could you possibly pick up a few cases of Capri Sun?”

“Capri-sun? Oh, that’s the uh… the juice pouch stuff, right? This for Lancie or somethin’?”

“Yes, I just need you to grab a few boxes for us.” 

Lance’s eyes narrowed dangerously, tendrils making themselves comfortable around the wine bottle Balan had poured from earlier. 

Balan’s glare back spoke volumes, his finger twisting the phone cord. “Specifically, _strawberry kiwi_ flavored. Yes… you’ll be compensated. ...I’d say around 2 or 3 is good. Enough to keep Lance out of my hair.”

“Gosh, I feel right sorry for ya, mate. This about what happened when we were goin’ through Haoyu’s flight scene?”

A pause, and then a lighthearted chuckle resounded. 

“Why, yes! It is about that incident from two days ago, how funny you remember… Haha yes, thank you so much. See you on Thursday for the tornado scene blocking. Okay, see you soon, alright then, goodbye Josè.” 

“Nice speakin’ with ya! Hooroo, mate!” 

The receiver thwacked against the rotary base. “Are you _satisfied_ , Lance? Three cases of your favorite, on Thursday.” 

“Yes, immensely. Thank you, Balinsky,” Lance had turned his heel to make haste, but Balan stopped him with a cough to clear his throat. 

“Oh? No no no, you’re not going anywhere until **_that_ **,” He pointed a long finger at the glass ridden, purple stain that now adorned the carpet. “Is fixed. Do you know how much this carpet cost? I cannot afford to, well actually I can, but I’d rather not need to recarpet a room due to your ignorance.” 

Lance looked ready to kill him, but he couldn’t care less. Repercussions for one's actions were always the perfect way to teach someone. Balan snickered a little bit, flicking his hand mockingly for Lance to get started. “Go on. Get to it. That mess isn’t going to clean itself, you know.”

“I hate you so much, Balan, you know that?” Lance seethed, teeth clenched. “You and your ‘I’m too good for everyone’ schtick.”

Balan could only half heartedly laugh at that, a hand over his heart to show falsified flattery, letting the insults run like water off a duck’s back.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I joined a server!!! And made so many new friends!!! And to say that they put me up to this is an overstatement since I wrote this out of my free will...


	3. Chess Chasers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Equally, another cursed idea brought up during a conversation with friends...

“Balan… stop touching the pawns.” 

Balan grumbled, retracting his hands from the smooth, ivory pieces. They felt so right against his fingertips, the perfect weight within his hands, and he wished he could juggle a few just to see how good they’d be for props. He wished Lance wasn’t such an uptight friend, yet beggars couldn’t be choosers in this world. “They’re so… nice, though. To hold, I mean. Don’t you think?” 

“You sound like those people who had oral fixations with laundry pods back in the day,” The subtle clink of a piece against the granite board preceded Lance’s words, their side of the board finally set up. “Do you remember that?” 

“Oh, absolutely. I cannot believe that even became widespread,” Balan chuckled, picking up one of his pawns once again to inspect it. So smooth was the lacquer allowing them to shine, the intricate designs decorating the bottom of the pawn so beautiful that he couldn’t help but gush. The chess set had been a gift from Cal, a sort of thank-you for changing how he saw not only himself, but his entire career. He’d come back personally, new apprentice in tow, to deliver the custom built set with a smile Balan was overjoyed to see him displaying. Lance had even come to say hello that day, crawling out from whatever cavernous pit they resided in to give their own regards. Balan reminisced fondly on how surprised they’d been when Cal embraced him without warning, whispering constant praise for how the horrors had changed him for good. 

Balan still enjoyed teasing Lance about that moment. 

Regardless of that, however, the gift was warmly received with honor. And, to their surprise when they’d opened it for the first time, it was a highly delicate piece of art that was to be savored. The board was a similar pattern to the granite floors within the theater, but with an added spiral of negati energy flourishing out from the center made from dazzling amethyst. Each set of pieces were catered specifically to both sides of the spectrum, with intricate negati and positi motifs having been carved with care. They didn’t even want to know how much this had even cost Cal, considering each gemstone that decorated the king pieces were of their real variety, and not some knockoff stone meant for mass production. More importantly, though, was the sheer delicacy of the pawns. Enticing they were, glimmering under the lowlights of the room, the positi markings positively radiating good energy. Perhaps even they- 

The table jipped, Lance having pushed into the side forcefully, sending some of the pieces on the board askew from their positions. The sudden rush of the mahogany against his thigh brought Balan straight out of his thoughts, to where he realized the pawn had grown incredibly close with his lips. Since when had the piece gotten there? Glancing up to Lance, their eyes seemed to be widened in borderline shock, pupils practically shrunken to insignificant specks. “What the actual HELL, Balan!” 

“What,” The maestro set the piece back down onto the board, reoccupying it’s defense for the king. “I was only admiring the wondrous beauty of this set.”

“You looked as if you were about to take a chunk out of that,” Lance breathed, rapping their fingers against the table in a non-specific beat pattern. “Please, do NOT.” 

“Fine, fine, I yield, oh dark lord,” Balan teased, throwing his hands up in mock defense. It was just a joke in the first place. Balan wasn’t as much of an idiot to actually consume a chess piece. At least, he hoped that Lance understood that much. Clearing his throat, he referred to the stagnant board, leaning two fingers down to reset the game. “Anyways, shall we continue on with our game of wits, or shall you play by yourself? _Again_ , I should add.” 

And though Lance looked at him skeptically, the ornate makeup adorning their brows having risen slightly as to question his own motives, a tendril slithered in to repair their own line of defense. “If you insist, Bal…” They regarded Balan with a nod, albeit a stiff one. “White moves first.” 

* * *

Balan wanted to end. Quit. Get sent to heaven similarly to how he threw Haoyu’s paper plane directly into the sun. He wanted to absolutely liberate from this lifetime into another. He lay, hunched into himself on the velvet couch in his office, hands over his stomach to settle the pain. Everything hurt, his entire body was on fire, his stomach did not enjoy the foreign object that it was currently trying to digest. Luckily, he wouldn’t need to… excrete it, similar to how a human would. As time went on, it would slowly be eaten away by the void his stomach existed as, dissolving into nothingness and becoming one with some universe Balan had no information on. Such was the life of things that entered his body. However, he wasn’t expecting to feel this level of agony. Is this what those kids felt like when they’d consumed detergent? 

The door to his private chambers creaked open, revealing a Lance with an almost incredulous expression. “I cannot believe you ATE ONE.” 

“It was just one,” Balan hissed out, positioning his body so that his back faced Lance. “It didn’t even feel like anything at first.” 

“Mhm, sure,” A banging clink reached the maestros’ ears, and as he peeked over his shoulder to see exactly what had been set down for him, Balan wished he had the energy to obliterate Lance. There, on the table with some of the abysmal pink liquid dripping down the side, was an awfully mountainous martini glass containing nothing but pepto bismol. Pepto.Bismol. It looked almost toxic with how brightly neon colored it was, the stench of artificial bubblegum making his own nose scrunch up to hide. There was even a little slice of orange decorating the sugared rim. 

Balan could feel the rage overtake the pain, coupled with annoyingly present embarrassment. “You have got to be kidding me, Lancelot,” He sneered, amber eyes zeroing in on the offender. “This is a joke, right?” 

The entity of negativity merely shrugged, a catty glint flashing in their eyes. From underneath the facial hood they wore, Balan was sure he could see a grin fueled by smug, entirely undeserved satisfaction. “Drink up, you raging idiot.” 

Pointedly glaring, already preparing the sweet vengeance he shall have upon Lance, Balan grasped the slim handle of the glass. The bismol within the glass jiggled around a bit, dripping down the edge like what befitted that of tubby custard. He attempted to swallow a gag, but failed upon doing so once the bubble gummy, sickeningly saccharine scent got an up close and personal show with his nostrils. Peering over the rim, he could see Lance watching expectantly, the smile on their face even more apparent with how their cheeks dimpled. If it weren’t for the egregious pain radiating his gastrointestinal system, he’d have absolutely ripped into his gothic companion by now. 

He just wanted this to be over, and done with. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, and regardless if he did, Lance would bitch about it for the next week. Flushing his pride down the drain, he opened the hatch, and immediately began to guzzle the appalling beverage. And the _second_ the relief agent hit the back of his throat, Balan wanted to scream. It was _spicy_. It burned, hotter than a thousand suns hanging high in the sky. It bubbled and fizzed like soda pop, and held the same biting feel akin to that of seltzer water. But Balan surged on, despite fighting the urge to spit it up like a newborn baby, emptying the glass in one fell swoop.

Once nothing remained, the maestro smashed the glass upon the mahogany table like a drunken man would at a bar. Lance waggled their brows in retort to the venomous look Balan retained in the amber of his eyes. “See, that wasn’t _so_ bad, now was it Bal~?” 

“I wish I could defenestrate you,” Balan seethed through clenched teeth, resuming his stance on the couch, curling into himself. At least the bismol seemed to be doing its job, the pain not as imminently threatening as before. But _god_ , it was awful to get down. And though he wanted to question Lance as to why he had carbonated it, he simply couldn’t bring himself to, not desiring to entertain Lance anymore than he already had. “But, unfortunately, this room has no windows for me to do so,” He rolled, his back facing Lance. “Now could you leave me to wallow in my suffering? I don’t exactly need you here to worsen it.” 

The fantastic thing was that Lance said absolutely nothing as they left, the door opening and shutting without so much as even a stutter of a word. The horrendous reality, however, smashed into Balan like a raging locomotive. His companion had yet another embarrassing ‘Balan Behind the Scenes’ moment to gossip about with all of the performers. Now _everyone_ would find out he had not only consumed a chess piece (and there was no doubt in his mind Cal wouldn’t be impressed by such a notion), but equally that he had regrettably inhaled the carbonated monstrosity Lance had served him. 

Whatever. He could deal with that another time. All he wanted to do now was relax, wait this out, pray Lance didn’t immediately leave to text everyone, and vow to never consume a chess piece ever again.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope that this made you all laugh! It was such silly idea, and then it turned into an actual fic, and now here we are lmao

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so the demo released and contrary to popular belief or whatever, I loved the demo and am now even more excited for the game. Who else is with me please raise your hands!!!!!
> 
> So, to celebrate, I decided to start a collective work of one-shots! Some will be angsty, like the first one posted here, and others will be friendly and fun to match the tone of the game.
> 
> This also gives me the chance to expand on headcanons I have for all of the characters, so..........
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this work, and will continue to support me!


End file.
